Room of rubble.

Yes, I have set my bags down on strange floors again, oh it has indeed been a while. It is the same city, with a different rhythm running through its vein, I myself bleed the same and yet this particular home is of different shade. I am not settled, God wonders when I ever will be, but I am calm, and slowly, my area becomes breathable, I adapt and yet still circle the edge.
I have not heard from a handful of particulars since departing again, I guess you should honestly be careful what you do ask for early on.
The first week had my dull of inspiration leaking back with a fresh vibe, the sort of trickle a mountain spring offers. The beauty of the space between the back of the taxi and the tarmac beneath, droplets of rain between, shone to me like no other. Do not call it a muse, but call it a breath.
Atop the bed I currently sit, it is not mine and yet I rest, joins me; the boxes. And many of them. Piled and coloured, bulging and half empty. Each sound beneath my large window is the delivery van I await, each creak, a possible guest of whom I am not willing to allow within yet.

I guess this should be brief, for words of my life are weak at present. I have been suffering internally, and to know one's necassary concern, it is all self-prod and question, and I unfortunately have little to soothe it. Oh but my shell, how lusciously she is treated, her skin dampening with age each day and yet soothed by a familiar and loving hand. The window we sleep beside ever brighter, and still do I hide in my shade.
It can be sweet, you know, just you. But no sweet will come without time, work and progress.
Oh do not end on a dull note! For each day is a grand oak door, for each dawn is the silk web of winter's morning and my evenings are the coloured crystal of occasion.

In case you had yet to realise, Autumn is breathing in through the window, and I inhale it's cool.
I'm coming back to life.